


Early Flowers

by azephirin



Series: Charleston [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 1000-5000 Words, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Charleston, Domestic, F/M, Fairy Tales, Flowers, Future Fic, Marriage, Masturbation, Multifandom Kink/Cliche Challenge, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Thy fingers make early flowers / of all things.</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Multifandom Kink/Cliché Challenge](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/553257.html); my prompt was "caught masturbating." Thanks to [](http://dark-reaction.livejournal.com/profile)[**dark_reaction**](http://dark-reaction.livejournal.com/) and [](http://roguebitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**roguebitch**](http://roguebitch.livejournal.com/) for quick, astute betas, and to [](http://katomyte.livejournal.com/profile)[**katomyte**](http://katomyte.livejournal.com/), per usual, for egging me on. Title and summary from [this poem](http://www.internal.org/view_poem.phtml?poemID=242) by e. e. cummings.

The azalea bush is a brilliant red, all its flowers in full bloom. It's an explosion of color, an aria of crimson in their yard.

This morning, when Sam left, it was nothing but branches with a shirring of timid early-spring leaves.

It's not the first time something like this has happened. The dogwood at the end of the driveway bloomed purple the night he and Lissa slept together for the first time, the familiar white of its delicate papery blossoms deepening to a lush, sensual color better suited to an orchid. It lasted all week. Sam was horrified; Lissa was embarrassed at first but got over it quickly; her godmother thought it was hilarious; Dean did, too. And there have been other times: Sam planted a row of irises in the backyard, to keep Lissa's camellias company, shortly after he moved in; the irises doubled the day Dean signed a lease on a place about a mile away. Every plant in the yard (not just the dogwood and the azaleas, but the day lilies, the hydrangeas, the roses, even the wisteria on the fence) turned white the morning of their wedding.

The azalea in question today usually flowers white, and in any case hasn't flowered yet this season. Nothing has; it's too early, even in South Carolina. If Lissa has turned it red in the not quite two hours he's been gone, she's up to something.

Moving as quietly as he can, Sam goes up the walk and onto the porch, and lets himself into the cottage. It's only two bedrooms, and sound carries easily within and around it. He closes the door noiselessly, goes through the living room, then stops in the small hallway and listens.

It's coming from the back bedroom. Their bedroom.

The sounds are wordless, muted cries that may get louder as Lissa's arousal grows, as she loses herself in pleasure, but she grew up in a small apartment with a big family, and the necessity of quiet is well ingrained. She's lived on her own for years—by herself for more than a decade, and coming up on three with Sam—but old habits are hard to break.

A moan crests and breaks, and Sam can't stay in the hall anymore. He opens the bedroom door.

Lissa's sprawled out on their bed, naked, her skin glowing golden in the afternoon sunlight through the room's windows. Her right hand is playing on her breast, unhurried, twisting the nipple gently the way she likes; her left hand moves equally leisurely between her thighs, fingers glistening with her wetness. Her hair, long and light brown, with blond highlights that she pays good money for, is strewn around her head on the pillow. In the gleaming sunlight, it looks like a spill of wildflower honey.

She opens her eyes and smiles at him. She's not startled at all. "Sam," she says, "you walk in on somebody like that, you could at least do her the courtesy of telling her you're here."

"You already knew," he says.

"Of course." Her fingers don't stop their stroking, and her eyes flutter closed. "I know you anywhere. I can't believe you haven't—oh—figured that out by now."

"Let me help," he says, voice coming out rough, and he reaches down to stroke her hip.

She momentarily removes her hand from her breast and uses it to bat his away. "It's rude to walk in on a girl unannounced when she wants her private time. Even if you're married to her."

He starts to get up, awkward, embarrassed at having disturbed her, but her hand on his thigh commands that he remain in place. "You can stay," she says, "but you can't touch. Go sit over there." She nods toward the armchair that faces the foot of their bed.

He obeys. He can't help spreading his legs a little: He's hard from the sight and smell and sound of her, and if he can't touch her, he wants to touch himself. But he keeps his hands on the chair's arms, waiting for permission.

Her eyes flash to the button fly of his jeans, where the line of his cock is clearly visible, and she smiles, then bites her lip as her fingers return to teasing the nipple. It's a dusky pink, flushed with blood, and the areola is wide and brown. For a moment there is nothing Sam wants more than to have his mouth on it, to taste the delicate skin against his tongue.

"If you're good," she tells him, "I'll let you lick my fingers when I'm done."

Sam can't wait that long. "I want to lick you now. Suck on your clit, get you all over my face, taste you when you come."

She arches up against her own touch then, gasping, but says only, "Well, you should have thought of that before you barged on in here, now, shouldn't you?"

She bends her knees, puts her feet flat on the bed, and moves her legs a little farther apart. Her hips rise as her fingers sink into the welcoming heat of her cunt, and Sam hears himself moan with her as she rubs her clit with her other hand. Her sounds are soft, vulnerable, small in a way that Lissa herself is not and never has been: She's nearly six feet tall, with generous hips and breasts that overflow even Sam's hands. Her accent is Brooklyn with the remnants of childhood Russian around the edges of certain words, and she stands out here in Charleston like an oak tree among tea roses.

God, he thinks, if he could just lean forward, go to his knees at the end of the bed. Make her come from her own fingers and from his tongue. She tastes different before orgasm and after—darker, saltier, heavier after she's climaxed—and Sam has known this for years, but he never tires of making the comparison.

"Tell me what you were thinking about, at least," he bargains.

"It changes," she says on a sigh. "I don't think about the same thing—ah!—the whole time."

"What were you thinking about when I walked in?"

She grins, bites her lip again, then says, "You and Dean."

Sam sighs. He should know better than to ask her things sometimes. "Again? Don't you ever think about anything else?"

"You kidding? Could think about that all day, Dean's lips wrapped around your cock—"

"Lissa!"

She laughs, the sound liquid and aroused. "Sometimes I think about Johnny Depp. Mmm, getting kidnapped onto his pirate ship, bent over one of the ship rails, getting spanked before he fucks me in front of the crew..." Her fingers are moving in and out, in and out, slowly; Sam half wants to jerk off and half wants to laugh, because on the one hand, sex fantasies about Jack Sparrow, what the fuck? On the other hand, one of his go-to fantasies since he was about fourteen involves Joan Jett sitting on his face, so he's not about to mock anybody else for theirs. Especially when anybody else is perfectly capable of making him sleep on the couch.

Lissa goes on, "Then there's the one about you and Dean and Anderson Cooper—"

Sam almost swallows his tongue. _"What?"_

"Oh, yeah. God, I can go on that one for hours. Those eyes, those arms, those narrow hips, that ass." Her neck arches, and she flattens the hand that's stroking her clit; the amber curls between her thighs are soaked, and all Sam wants is a taste, just one...

"Do I even want to know who's doing what in that scenario?"

"Oh," Lissa says, "Anderson Cooper totally tops the shit out of both of you." Sam starts coughing and can't stop. He _really_ should know better than to ask. Lissa continues, blissfully, "You're on this big wrought-iron bed, and he tells you to wrap your hands around the headboard, and he holds you down while he fucks you. You've got your legs around his hips, begging for it, but he just goes slow until you're sobbing—"

"I can never watch CNN again," Sam says mournfully.

"You asked," Lissa says, unapologetic.

"I didn't think you were serious."

Her hand's moving faster, and she gasps. "Well," she manages, "that was stupid of you." Her hips are moving up and down to the same rhythm as her fingers, the fingers of both hands, and her entire long, graceful body, its curves and sinews caught up in sex and sensation. She's not going slowly, but she's not in a hurry, either, and she opens her eyes again, her blue-gray irises the color of some precious gem that hasn't been discovered yet. They travel his body from head to foot, lingering again on his fly, and despite the mentions of various things Sam isn't going to think about ever after this, he gets harder under her gaze. "You're about to explode, aren't you, Sam? Sitting there watching me, can't do anything, all you can do is look while I touch myself. Isn't that true?"

"Lissa..." he groans. He can't even come up with a verb to make it a sentence.

"Take off your clothes," she tells him. "Don't just throw them on the floor. Fold them and put the dirty stuff in the laundry."

"You fucking tease," he says, fervently.

"Teach you to walk in on me, won't it?"

"We're married!" he protests.

"Doesn't mean you can't knock first. Hurry up, Sam. I want to come and I don't think I can hold out much longer."

Her eyes fall closed again, and, languorously, she slides her fingers out of her cunt. It's the middle three, and they're shining with her juices, and Sam gasps, "Please," before he realizes he's said it out loud.

"You don't even have your shirt off," she says.

Then she sinks four fingers into herself, and her back makes a perfect bow, arching from the bed as she cries out.

Sam undresses very, very quickly.

When he sits back down, she's panting, her hand making short, precise thrusts in and out. Sam wants it to be his cock, wants to be standing at the end of the bed, holding her thighs as she sprawls on her back, as he fucks her until she's sweaty, loose, so drunk from pleasure that she doesn't even beg, just moans as her interior muscles clench around him in orgasm after orgasm.

He tightens his hand around the base of his cock, because that image gets him a little closer than he needed to be.

"You can come," she tells him, "when I'm done. Not before."

Both her hands are working, four fingers going in and out, three gentle and urgent on her clit. Her cries become briefer, sharper, high and desperate in a way she'll never admit to. It's what she sounds like when they're both close, when the headboard of the old bed is rattling against the wall with the force of them, when he's on his elbows, in and out hard and fierce. She's loud when she's on top—moans that go to shouts, usually his name—but her noises are softer when she's underneath him, pleas rather than demands, though he'll wear the marks of her nails in his back and her teeth in his shoulder for the next several days.

He watches her come now, her whole body shuddering. Her legs close around her hands, and her hips rock up, though her head falls back as her mouth opens on a stuttering breath; it's as though her body is trying to wring every drop of sensation from itself. She's frozen like that, transfixed, until the last whimper escapes her and she collapses back onto the duvet, breath quick and uneven.

Sam should get an _award_, he thinks, for managing not to come during that.

"Lissa, please," he says, "can I lick them?"

She gives him an affectionate, satisfied smile and holds up her hands. He gets up from the chair, stretches across the bed, and licks her fingers clean, sucking gently as she hums with contentment. Then she rolls onto her side, hands folded under her head, and says, "Don't you still need to take care of that?"

"God," Sam groans as he uncoils onto his back and finally, finally closes his hand around his cock.

It doesn't take long. She's watching him avidly, still smiling, drinking him in, and it takes maybe three strokes before he coats his hand and his belly, white and hot and messy. It feels like he's been waiting to come forever, not like it's just been fifteen or twenty minutes since he saw the newly red azalea bush in the yard. His breathing is unsteady, and it doesn't get any better when she leans over to clean him with her tongue.

He gathers her into his arms, and she grumbles, but then she tucks her head underneath his chin and settles her hand on his chest, as though she's registered her protest for propriety's sake and now she can get on with it and enjoy being held.

"Sorry I walked in on you," he says after a while.

She snorts. "No, you're not."

"Well, OK, I'm sorry I didn't let you know I was in the house. Even though you knew anyway."

"It's just basic good manners," she says, unbelievably primly. He cards her hair through his fingers, working some of the tangles out, and she adds, "You did get home from Dean's early, though."

"Oh. Yeah, I went over, but Chris said he was at Baba's doing some yardwork. We talked for a little bit, then I stopped at Target and came back home. By the way," Sam adds reluctantly, "Baba wants us to come over for dinner tomorrow."

Lissa yawns. "I've got no plans."

Sam sighs. "So I'll stop for take-out on the way?"

"Unless you want to eat what she cooks."

"Yeah...hell no."

"You should do some yardwork, too. She'll start to think Dean likes her better."

Sam tries to think of a politic way to answer this, because the fact is that Dean gets along with Lissa's somewhat terrifying godmother in a way that Sam never will. Which is fine—Sam has a healthy fear of and respect for her, and she took Lissa in after Lissa's family abandoned her, and she saved Dean's life, and both Sam and Dean repaid that debt a long time ago—but it's a little difficult to phrase tactfully.

He settles for, "Her house freaks me out."

"Her house freaks everybody out. And you've known her how long, Sam? Come on. That's not an excuse anymore. And anyway, she likes you. Just as much as she likes Dean. Probably more, because you're married to me."

It's Sam's private opinion that anyone who commands night and day, and who dismisses Lilith (rightly) as an upstart, is worth remaining terrified of. But Baba does like him, and she's been good to Lissa all her life.

Sam kisses the top of Lissa's head. "I'll go over there later today."

"Nap first," Lissa says, and sighs in imperious contentment as Sam pulls the covers around them. She's already falling asleep.

"I love you," he tells her, wondering whether she'll be awake enough to hear.

She is. "God, Sam, you're such a girl," she mutters, like always.

"Yes, Lissa, clearly I possess female anatomy."

"You might as well. Everybody knows that I wear the pants in this relationship."

He doesn't grace that with a reply, just laughs quietly and runs his hand up and down her spine the way she likes.

He's dozing when he feels her hand moving on his chest. It's a single finger, slow but with intent. He doesn't have to envision the lines it draws to know that the shapes are Cyrillic characters. He doesn't speak much Russian: It was Lissa's first language, but she doesn't talk to the family she left behind in Brighton Beach; he's heard her use it on the phone with Baba, but when Sam goes with Lissa to her godmother's house, everybody converses in English. Still, he's learned a little, enough to know what she's tracing on his skin.

It's the only way she's ever been able to say it, written in invisible letters in a language he doesn't speak.

"I know," he whispers, holding her close, cradling her head against him. "I know."

She falls asleep. Sam lies awake a little longer, enjoying the warmth of the room, bathed with sunlight, and the musk of their smells, combined together. They'll need to air out the bedroom later, but it's pleasant for now.

Sam glances out the window into the backyard. The camellias, unbudded last time he checked, have burst into bloom, flowering not their usual yellow but a deep, intimate flush of pink.

He smiles and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has three prequels: [If These Delights Thy Mind May Move](http://archiveofourown.org/works/60247), [He Who Wants a Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/works/58297) and [Epithalamion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/58142).
> 
> If you didn't recognize Baba and Lissa, you can find out more about them [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baba_Yaga).


End file.
